


Remember Love's Stronger

by Plainxte



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Pining, Platonic Froger, Telepathy, past violence (non-graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte
Summary: The comfort of those moments, that's what he had cherished. And above all else, the feel of Freddie's mind against his own. That warmth, and the safety of it. Like someone had held him close and cradled him against themselves.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	Remember Love's Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the 2020 edition of Froger week. The prompt for this was Telepathy
> 
> Thank you @quirkysubject for keeping this on track, for the beta, and for everything 💖  
> And thanks @emmaandorlando for hosting! ✨
> 
> TW: Vague non-graphic memories of past violence. Read safely!

No, he didn't know how it worked. How could he? Roger had always thought that it was what everyone did. That it was just one of those things. That everyone heard other people's voices in their minds. Thoughts, snippets of conversation, all kinds of things. Most of it was incomprehensible, just background noise. But sometimes there were people who came through loud and clear. And from time to time, someone even responded.

That's what he had thought. That it was simply how the world was. Had thought, until. Well, until.

And they had had no answers, either. Them at that place. Not for him, or for anyone else either. They didn't understand what it was that they were supposed to achieve. What it was all about, or how to go about producing results. How could anyone else be expected to know, when they didn't?

That was, perhaps, the worst part of it all. That it was all so haphazard, and that it had all been just – something done on a whim, almost, without even a proper plan. Useless.

Just like the rest of what passed for his life, these days.

Of course Roger wished that it hadn't happened. Useless, to wish for something like that, like everything else. But what he couldn't wish was for Freddie to have never been. To never have known him.

That, he didn't want to even contemplate.

He thought back to the words they had exchanged in that place, in the darkness and amid all the pain. He remembered the initial shock of actually being able to have a silent conversation, of sorts, with someone. Not just a couple of words, but a discussion. Freddie had been the first. And that it had happened there, where everything was wrong: that this one thing felt so right.

The tentative beginning of what had grown between them. Because something had. (And the thought that Freddie might not feel the same; that kept him awake in the night. Or it would have, anyway, if there hadn't been such an abundance of nightmares for him to choose from.) The gradually increasing trust, and the relief he had felt every time when he had felt Freddie's presence against his own mind.

_Freddie. Are you there?_

Cautious, hopeful. In the cold and the dark of the cells. With a knot of fear on the pit of his stomach (worse than anything they could do to him). Would this be the time when he would no longer answer?

Clenching his fist, counting slowly to a hundred. 

And then.

_Yes. Still here, Roger._

He had leaned his aching forehead against the cold wall, relieved beyond any words, silent or otherwise.

The comfort of those moments, that's what he had cherished. And above all else, the feel of Freddie's mind against his own. That warmth, and the safety of it. Like someone had held him close and cradled him against themselves. That had become his reason for holding on, in there. His shield.

And even now, Roger still tried to cling to it. When everything was supposed to be fine again (he couldn't repress a disdainful snort at the phrase) and everything that had happened in there was over and done with. As they said.

Even when it was just a memory, he wanted to hold on to it like nothing else. And even when it was three o'clock in the morning and he was doubting that anything good had ever happened. Maybe it had been just a defence mechanism of some kind. Something that his mind had come up with in an attempt to survive, and to find a respite in the middle of it all. After all, it wasn't as though they had ever even met face to face. Maybe it was all just – literally – in his head. A figment of his imagination.

It became a little easier to hold on to his memories, though, and to trust in them, once he found Brian again. Brian had been there, too, after all. Even though Brian and Freddie had never spoken, not as far as Roger knew, anyway. It hadn't been an organised hell, after all. 

But still, with Brian there, Roger wasn't alone in the world anymore. At least some of it had to have been true. When Roger saw Brian sitting at the kitchen table in the small flat they had come to share, taking notes from a textbook spread in front of him, but humming something that Roger could hear in his mind as well as with his ears; he couldn't dismiss it, then. And if Brian was real, tangible, and here, it was easier to believe in Freddie having been there, too.

The sound of Freddie's voice in his mind. His laughter – Roger had only heard it once. There hadn't been much to laugh about. But he cherished that sound, even when he couldn't be certain he remembered it exactly right, anymore.

There was something funny in it all, too, if you dug deep enough, Roger reflected. Three months, that's all it had been. That's what he had been told. That's all it had taken. A short while in the life of a person; enough to ensure that nothing would ever be the same again. That everything would be sharply divided in two: the time Before, and the time After. And no way of bridging the gap. Just an abyss.

Roger didn't want to look at it too closely, whatever it was that his mind did. That something that he was able to do, and that he had once taken for granted, and that he had thought it was something that everyone did. He didn't even want to give it a name. Brian kept wanting to talk about it with him, but Roger always shied away from it. They nearly came to blows about it, at times. But Roger couldn't bear to dwell on it, or to analyse it. Not like Brian did.

He didn't even want to try to put it into words, or describe the way it felt: Talking to someone without words. Knowing what another person's mind felt like. It was too fantastical. Too much to take in. Too much to think about. And giving any of it a name and a classification – wouldn't that mean admitting that there was something in what they had said? That there was something strange – something _unnatural_ – about him? That he was somehow to blame for all of it? That they had been right to do what they did?

And he wanted nothing to do with _them_ anymore. Nothing to do with any of it. Unless, of course, it was for taking them out altogether. Burning them all, perhaps. But apart from that, no.

But he was afraid, too: that if he looked too closely at it, it would all disappear. It would vanish into thin air... And the memory of that voice, of that warmth, that it would disappear, too.

It was foolish. No question about that. _He didn't even know what he looked like._

And so Roger found himself sitting once more at the window, looking out into the night. He watched the glow of the streetlights outside, and the shifting pattern that the branches of the trees cast on the floor. He shivered, and pulled the old blanket more tightly around his shoulders. He tried to call up the sound of that voice again, his sole comfort through those nights he didn't want to think about. What would Freddie say if he saw Roger now? Or, rather, if he heard him now. He tried to remember the feeling, that relief of knowing that he wasn't alone in that place.

Music became more and more important to him as time went by. It was what he wanted to focus on, and it became the centre of his life. It was good to lose himself in the rhythm, and in the need to concentrate and only think about the piece they were playing at any one time. 

When he had been drumming for so long that his fingers bled, that was as close to peace as he got. The tiredness and the smarting of his palms were all he needed to think about, and for a while, his mind quietened down. When he was playing, nothing else existed around him. Everything faded into insignificance. He played until the blisters on his hands tore and his sticks felt slippery because of combined sweat and blood, until his arms ached and his lungs burned and there was a ringing in his ears. On those days, when he collapsed onto his uncomfortable sofa-bed he knew that he would be finally able to sleep. And he knew that he would not mind the springs digging into his back, or the narrowness of it, and most importantly, he knew that he had a chance at sleeping without dreaming.

* * *

And when it changed, Roger was still completely unprepared for what happened. No matter how much time he had spent thinking about it.

It was supposed to have been just one gig among others, just like the one last week, or even the bit of a disaster last month, when they had found themselves playing for an audience literally consisting of two people. There was nothing special about that day, except in the sense that a chance to play and perform was always a special thing.

Of course, there was always the thought somewhere at the back of his mind, tamped down as well as he could: What if he were there? What if today was going to be the day when they would meet again? Because they had to, one day, didn't they?

He pushed the thought away, viciously. Life didn't work like that. It wasn't a fairytale. Hadn't he learned anything? And he needed to focus, anyway.

He had heard Tim saying that he was bringing a friend of his to listen, but he hadn't paid him much mind. Tim hadn't mentioned a name, after all. Maybe he would have listened if he had.

They had quarrelled earlier, Tim and Roger, as they often did. Over everything and nothing: the sound, the set list, all the usual things. And so Roger was in a foul mood when he checked his drums over one last time. He dropped a drumstick out of sheer irritation, and decided to change the placement of the toms for the twentieth time. The audience was already milling about, the hum of voices (both those he heard with his ears and those that were silent, although it was difficult to separate the two in the moment) ebbing and flowing in the background. Brian was tuning his guitar next to him, lost in his own world. A ways off, Roger could see Tim standing on the edge of the minuscule raised stage, talking with someone.

There was something about the man next to Tim. Somehow he seemed almost familiar. But Roger couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was definitely not someone Roger had met before, because he would have remembered that. But something about the way he looked at the people in the room, something in the way he never stood quite still. It struck a chord somewhere.

He was slender, Tim's friend, and his white trousers and pale-coloured, embroidered jacket only accentuated his thinness. When they slowly wandered over to the drumkit, and Tim greeted Brian, Roger could see that he had warm brown eyes framed by graceful brows, as well as high cheekbones and a full mouth. Roger stood up from behind the drums, putting one hand in his pocket, nervously, trying not to fidget.

"And here's our bastard of a drummer," Tim said cheerfully. "Don't worry, he's not always a complete idiot. Just when he chooses to. Sometimes he's almost like a human being, really."

Roger would have retorted, he would have. He was going to. Tim's choice of words stung, even though he was sure it wasn't intentional. But he wasn't just going to let it pass. He had a biting reply ready on his tongue, but before he could open his mouth, he was arrested by the feel of a new set of thoughts near his own. It wasn't the familiar whir of Brian's restlessly moving mind, or Tim's usually more even-tempered thought patterns. It was something else. Something – yes, something familiar. And precious, too, something that he had longed for – but it couldn't be.

"So, Roger, this is the friend I was talking about," Tim said. "Freddie, this is Roger." He gestured between them.

The brown eyes grew wider at the mention of Roger's name. Roger was sure that his were doing the same. He stepped forward and extended his hand to the stranger, eyes searching the other's face for some indication of whether, whether – 

"Nice meeting you, Freddie," Roger said, his voice rasping like it often did when he was nervous or excited.

Freddie's eyes widened even further, if that was possible, in shock. His mouth fell open, teeth poking out a little. Seemingly working on autopilot, he grasped Roger's hand in his own. It looked like he was having trouble forming words: he tried to say something several times, but nothing came out.

"You, too," he finally managed, in a strangled whisper.

Roger shivered. It was – wasn't it? – 

"I – I think, have we – have we met before?" Freddie tried again, his voice a little clearer now.

Roger didn't know what his face looked like – pale and blotchy, perhaps? – but he did know that there was a wide grin breaking out on his face. He hadn't felt like smiling like that, not for a long time.

"I think so. Not like this, face to face, but, yes."

There were tears in Freddie's eyes, and Roger couldn't hold back a sniffle of his own.

_It's you. Isn't it?_

And it was like breathing fresh air. Or feeling the light of the sun and a warm breeze on his skin. He sighed, and saw Freddie do the same. It was like coming home: something he hadn't felt in a long time.

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Do come talk to me in the comments! ✨


End file.
